


Ad Nauseam

by Anonymous



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 00:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20648444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The first time he’s held in shackles he’s twelve. The next he’s sixteen. And then twenty. Thirty six.Over and over again.





	Ad Nauseam

They’re arguing over something, Scrooge is waving around his cane and Della is snarking at him over her cup of coffee, and he’s doing the dishes despite the fact that Mrs. B insists she can do it just fine on her own (but he needs the normalcy, the routine. Sometimes he still feels sand underneath his feathers and between his teeth.) Donald’s only half paying attention, focusing on the comforting repetition of scrubbing down a plate, and he’s mostly only in the conversation to play the devil's advocate and rile Uncle Scrooge’s feathers anyway. The water is yellowed by the dishes stacked inside, oil spots sitting on the surface lazily drifting.

He picks up a bowl and it’s got something crusted to the inside and his fingers graze it and it feels like-

(He’s coughing blood, throat torn and ravaged by smoke from the golden bullet where it's burned the trees and foliage around him. He’s huddled on the beach and he’s missing big patches of feathers and he’s bleeding and he’s coughing up blood and he’s so thirsty- he’s so thirsty it’s torture, and he knows what seawater does and how it will hurt him but he’s just so thirsty and he can’t stop crying and the pain isn’t fading and he’s so thirsty-)

-it feels like cupping saltwater in his hands and bringing it up to his beak with trembling hands and bloody fingers, all too aware of how it will shut down all his organs one by one but unable or unwilling to resist fleeting relief.

The bowl is innocent, plain white, and he has to devote all his attention to not letting it slip from his hands to shatter on the floor. It takes all of his attention to keep his fingers loose enough not to shatter it in his hands. Scrooge says something and it’s like he been transported a million miles away, and he is on his hands and knees in burning hot sand stuck on a deserted island, groping blindly at his chest in the remnants of a twisted and misshapen spaceship and feeling one rib see-saw the wrong way when he sucks in a desperate gasp of air (broken broken _broken_.) Della says something, sharp and a little scared, and it startles him enough to drop the bowl.

It doesn’t fall in slow motion, no- it’s as if it’s always been on the floor in pieces, already damaged and just waiting for him to acknowledge it. Uncle Scrooge is crouched over the shards, picking them up, and Della sets her coffee cup down on the counter with a _clink_. That's enough to spurs him into action, and he drops down to the floor, starts to pick up the pieces haphazardly and almost frantically, he doesn't register the pain but he recognizes the blood on his hands from where the glass had slid down and cut his palm and there's blood there's blood-

Uncle Scrooge grabs his wrists to stop him, and maybe it wouldn’t have been enough to set him off normally, but he’s already disconnected and focused on the island and bad things and-

* * *

The first time he’s held in shackles he’s twelve.

They’re on an expedition to some hidden treasure room in Canada, the rural parts of Canada closer to the poles than to the border home, and there were unexpected complications in another set of adventurers hunting down the same score. They’re not people who know Uncle Scrooge personally- they understand who he is, they know about his fortune, and they’re dumb enough to forgo the treasure room for a quick and easy bout of kidnapping and ransom, and Donald’s dumb enough to let his guard down and take his time and get _behind._

There’s carvings on the wall, intricate curling lattice work still rough around the edges as if done in a hurry. The men who catch him crack him over the back of the head with the thick flashlight they’d brought with them, they take him as he’s lost in the craftsmanship of the stone around him, when he’s tracing his fingers over a particularly smooth patch of wall and admiring the slightest details. They don’t knock him out with the first hit, low balling it so they don’t hurt him too badly to screw up their ransom, and he stumbles, black spots flickering at the edge of his vision wildly.

He’s too incoherent to understand what they’re doing when they yank him up on his tiptoes, arms above his head, and snap closed thick shackles across tiny wrists. The bigger of the two tightens them too much, iron cuffs cutting into his skin and breaking the feathers on his wrists, and when Donald recovers enough to put together all the pieces (he goes to scream and the shorter man grabs his beak and forcefully holds it shut, squeezing so tightly tears gather in donald's eyes, and then he pulls out a length of rope and makes it so he can't scream at all) he can't speak to tell them it's shredding his skin.

They drag Donald behind them, sometimes literally if he can’t keep pace enough to walk, and the fourth time he slips the bigger dog just hoists him up by his wrists and slings him over his shoulder like a handbag.

By the time Uncle Scrooge backtracks enough to find him (he’s annoyed he has to do it until he sees what happened, and then he’s just angry, _angry, **angry,**_) the cuffs have worn his cut into his skin all gorey and raw, and his palms and forearms are sticky with blood, and his head hurts and pounds with each heartbeat, and the rope’s rubbed the side of his beak sore. He frees him, of course, and the Uncle Scrooge wraps his wrists carefully, and then he leaves the two men tied up in the treasure room after he’s cleared everything out.

(There's no way for them to escape wothout help, and with the teasure gone there's no reason for anyone to ever go in again.)

* * *

Magica De Spell shackles him directly to the floor in shacles made of liquid shadows when he’s sixteen. There’s no chain, no give, no room to move to be in any position other than forcefully kneeling, he’s bruising himself with how much he yanks at them, waiting for the moment she’s too distracted with whatever potion she’s mixing to keep up his bindings.

He spell book is made of skin. It’s pale and dry, ashy, feathers carefully plucked and flesh painstakingly stretched over the cover in nauseating clarity where it’s sitting on the table in front of him. He’s trembling and exhausted, having been in this predicament for hours now, fighting every second to free himself, holed up in Magicas home and unable to be rescued since Uncle Scrooge had never found out where she lived. There’s a growing sense of dread as she stirs her cauldron, glancing at the skin spell book every now and again, and completely ignoring everything he’s been screaming. (and he's been _screaming_, at first protests, then just to annoy her enough that she'll cut her loses and let him go, and in his darker moments- well, he'd begged.)

“Why won’t you listen to me?” He coughs hoarsely, tugging at the bindings, “Uncle Scrooge won’t give you his number one dime for me, that’s not how it’s gonna _go_.”

Her eyes flickered over to him and he lunges at the acknowledgement, grasping at the attention as if it were something precious, “I’m the worst bargaining chip you could have gotten!”

She steps over to him, dropping down to his eye level and finally, truly paying attention to him as she grabs his chin tightly, “You aren’t a bargaining chip.” She tells him, tilting his head down, “I’m going to slit your throat and bleed you out.” she says with a smile, as if she’s just discussing the weather.

“What..?” he asks, dumbfounded and cold all over.

“I’m trying something new, and I need blood never used in a magic ritual before… and a lot of it. I also need to break Scrooge’s morale and lower his numbers, two birds with one stone.” She stands up, going back to her brewing station while Donald’s emotions roil.

“You’re- how can you-” The room is spinning, closing in on him as he understands exactly how helpless he is, unable to free himself, suddenly hyperaware of the knife sitting on the table next to the leather skinned book, “You’re a freak, a monster-”

She backhands him so hard he sees stars and tastes blood, teeth rattling in his skull, head snapping so hard to the side his neck hurts and he’s almost instantly nauseous. She doesn’t say anything else, the strike warning enough, and goes back to brewing. Donald struggles against the floor, helplessness and pain making him want to vomit or give up.

He looks up, at her lush and fancy house with thick furs and plush couches, and realizes the ornate side table that the skinbook was sitting on was just so close, close enough that when he exhales the page stirs ever so slightly. Silently, doing his best not to alert his captor, he blows. Hes shaking and panicking so hard he doesn’t do anything at first, but he forces himself to calm down and tries again and again and again and again until finally- finally he exhales just hard enough to turn the page. it's another recipe, written in a language he doesn't understand. Magica steps away from her cauldron and glances at the brewing page, nonchalantly checking the wrong instructions and tossing in eye of newt where it’s not supposed to go- and it _explodes_.

The whole thing turns into bright green fire, a plume of pink smoke and heat exploding out of the pot on it’s initial erruption, and Magica screams. Donald can't hear, ears ringing from the explosion rattling his bones, and he has to blink bright spots form his vision- the house is burning, smoke crawling down his throat and he stumbles to his feet, only half realizing she's dropped her shadow chains- he sees her shift from where she's fallen and he doesn't stop to think, just shakily books it out the front door. He doesn’t stop running until he breaks through the trees and almost topples headfirst into busy highway traffic.

When he leads them back to Magicas house she’s already vacated the cottage, her skin book too charred and burnt to be used properly ever again, and easily left behind.

* * *

He enlists in the navy when he's eighteen and goes MIA two years later.

He’s in a room with four other soldiers, two are American, the rest from the UK. The cell is small, there’s not enough beds for all of them (and beds is generous, paper thin sheets, no pillows, just the privilege of not sleeping on the dirt) and since Donald was fresh blood he got stuck with the floor. They’re nice enough guys, gaunt, tired, but still in strangely good spirits- they've all been here longer than he has, and will be there longer after he's gone. The Parrot from the UK lets him bum a cigarette, it’s one of the few things the guards let them buy or work to get and he waves Donald’s gratitude off, and it’s the last cigarette Donald vows to have for the rest of his life, however long that may be in this place. Breakfast is a slice of ham and bread, dinner is sardines, lunch is leftover rations heated up in a big pot that tastes strangely bitter and altogether too salty. There’s not enough, and hunger hollows him out.

He hasn’t taken a warm shower in weeks. There’s no opportunity to shave here, there’s barely soap and toothpaste. There’s only one bathroom all of the prisoners have to share, taken one at a time by the guards and ushered in and out- there are always others waiting.

They keep him in shackles. He’s the only one in his cell with them looped around his wrists, heavy chain dragging on the floor when he sits and listens to the same stories from the other men told over and over again on loop because there's nothing else to do. He’s not treated well, but he’s still treated better than quite a few of the other men. There are times at night where he hears the guards enter the rooms with the men from afghanistan- and then there’s screaming. He’s almost desensetized to it at this point, and each time he easily falls asleep to the cacophony of torture he feels like he’s losing more and more of himself, pieces fracturing off bit by bit.

Though they only get to go outside for about half an hour a day but he still gets a tan line underneath his feathers where the cuffs sit.

The younger guard who watches them is almost nice, or at least less callous than the others. The older guard riles him up and pushes his buttons until Donald snaps so he can use it as an excuse to beat him senseless.

Once, and only once, they come for him. They ask him questions and when they cant understand him or he refuses to answer they string up his shackles from a hook in the wall and spray him with ice cold water until he’s freezing and can’t feel his fingers and he’s coughing up water from where they’re drowning him standing up. He's released after two months and he’s thin and gaunt, and his feathers are dull and don’t lay right from malnutrition and lack of sunlight and adequate sleep, and there’s a menagerie of bruises on his wrists- spots half healed, new bruises, old ones, all blurring and running together. They release him and he trudges back to the military base he's been at before he’d gotten picked up, and he eats a full meal and he shaves, and he goes back to work, and he hears screaming in the overwhelming silence that consumes him at night.

* * *

he's thirty six It’s his second time a prisoner of war, the shackles encase his hands up to his forearms and force his arm behind his back so far his shoulder burn and ache. His hands are stuck in a fist, forced to clench inside the bonds and unable to stretch and twist and it’s driving him crazy. He’s stuck and trapped and alone, and Lunaris is twisting his words and clamping thick metal across his beak so he can’t speak and can barely breathe. He lifts him up by the back of his shirt and chokes him and black spots dance in his visions and he struggles and tries desperately not to cry. There are shackles on his wrists.

(_There are shackles on his wrists._)

* * *

Uncle Scrooge grabs his wrists to stop him and Donald’s legs collapse, he falls backwards and almost takes the older man with him but Scrooge holds tight and keep his footing, tightening his grip around his wrists and Donald- he can’t help the sob that cracks out from his chest like a gunshot.

“Donald!” Scrooge quacks in alarm, pulling his arms above his head to try and get him to his feet, which only makes it worse as the younger duck starts actively crying.

“Let go…” Donald begs, voice breaking, “please please I don’t know anything- just let go let go- let me _go_-” He sucks in a shuddering breath so hard it sounds like it _hurts_.

Uncle Scrooge releases him, jumps back like he’s been burned and Donald lets himself fall to the floor, clutching his hands to his chest, curling around them on his side and pressing his back against the cupboard to make himself small, openly trying to reign in his flashback. He’s on the island knowingly killing himself he’s twelve and his wrists are bleeding he’s twenty and starving he’s thirty six and being beaten by aliens he’s sixteen and looking at his murder weapon and he can’t stop crying- he clutches at his face, hiding in the dark behind his palms, shaking so hard he can barely keep his eyes covered.

Slowly, the tide recedes.

He blinks, feels the tile where’s it’s presses up against the side of his face and he reaches out to touch it, dragging his fingertips across the grooves where the grout connects them to ground himself. He stares at the color, a pale beige, focuses on how it’s slick and shiny, slightly cold to the touch. He regains control of his emotions, of the memories _he_ gets to choose to remember. He pushes himself up on two hands and sits back on his legs, facing away from Della and Scrooge purposefully so he can control when he gets to confront what just happened. He drags a hand over his face, he can feel his heartbeat roaring in his ears, thrumming in his lungs and chest.

He slowly, unsteadily sits back against the wooden cabinets, stretching his legs out in front of him, and finally faces his family.

Della is on her knees, down and back, drawn away from him to give him space. Uncle Scrooge is the same way, one arm out to hold Della back. She’s got her hands up and over her beak, and she’s crying silently, and Uncle Scrooge looks white as a sheet, trembling.

“PTSD…?” Uncle Scrooge whispers, eyebrows collapsing inwards in agony.

“I’m. I'm sorry.” Donald offers, “I… did I break this bowl? I’m sorry.” things feel so far away still, like he’s grasping at straws, at nothing, trying to keep himself grounded.

“You don’t- you don’t need to apologize, lad.” Uncle Scrooge’s voice breaks on the last word, and he gives in, letting the tears slide down his face.

Dona’d doesn’t say anything else.

He just rubs at his wrists.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading.


End file.
